by Cait London
But then, she’d had to learn to appreciate wine. As entrepreneurs starting a business, Maggie and Ryan had had dinner parties, entertaining clients and business associates. She’d learned enough to present good wines, and then Ryan had introduced her and Glenda to a powerful businessman. Even with his rich wife on his arm, the man’s eyes spoke of darkness and lust…
His first move had been on Maggie, and when she refused, he’d turned to Glenda.
Glenda, who had eventually lost her marriage and her children.
The girl Beth haunted Maggie, reminding her of Glenda…Maggie turned on her side and wrapped her arm around Scout. Maggie’s own husband hadn’t believed her—no one had believed her, not even Glenda, and now her sister was dead. Glenda….
Maggie couldn’t fight or think any more; she simply gave herself to sleep.
Brent couldn’t sleep, the need to punish Maggie ruling him.
He needed her to say she loved him.
He needed to see the terror in her eyes before she died.
He needed to find her.
Brent eased from the bed and turned to straighten it. He could not bear an unmade bed. His knee ached from walking, from going into every gym and spa, from visiting health food stores and jogging paths.
And it was Maggie’s fault. It was her fault that he’d lost everything. That his friends had turned against him, friends who didn’t want their vices known, and he’d provided for those vices.
He’d provided Glenda with what she needed more than drugs at first—praise, just meaningless words. Stupid, infatuated Glenda, who always knew she was second best to Maggie.
With the meticulous care of the businessman he had once been, Brent sat down at the shoddy room’s lone table, and organized himself as if he were still at his desk. He began methodically to call any gym that might be open at night, hoping for a lead.
Oh, Maggie would pay for his trouble, she would indeed.
Nick sat in the Frenchman’s lighthouse, thinking of how delicately Maggie had handled the stem of the wineglass, of her familiarity with fine wines, to taste and appreciate. With good food and wine, she had relaxed and softened just that bit, that small knowing smile at Dante when he flirted with her.
Maggie’s nightmares were enough to wring that terrified scream from her, and she was wary of letting his family—or him—get too close.
Who had wounded her so badly? Who had taken her trust?
Impatient with himself for needing to know more about a woman than she wanted to give Nick tossed down the dry Chancellor of three years ago, instead of appreciating it. His wife still held his heart, but Maggie wasn’t a woman to be forgotten easily.
He rubbed his lips on the glass jar, thinking of Maggie’s warm mouth, the way she’d smelled…like the earth in spring when he stood between the rows of vines, like a vanilla-spice aroma, sweet and yet with unexpected bite. Her kiss had a smooth, supple entry and moved into the round character and velvety texture of good Merlot.
Nick stood abruptly and rubbed the scar on his side. What was he doing?
He and Alyssa had planned to raise their children in this house, and now…
He gripped the jar and hurled it onto the stone floor, watching the shards fly and burst with light. Just that quickly, Alyssa’s life had ended—and he’d been to blame.
Celeste had come to Nick just a week before the accident, warning him to be extra careful with Alyssa. Like Maggie, Celeste stayed within her own parameters, but she had a nose for trouble and was more than a little successful when working murder cases.
He should have listened.
He picked up an unopened bottle of reserve wine and smoothed the label with his thumb. He’d had high hopes for Alessandro’s Alyssa, a sauvignon blanc blend and a tribute to his wife. Now the twenty cases rested in the shadows of the cellar, and he was as unable to part with them as he was the memory of Alyssa.
Two days later, Maggie stood inside a small camper trailer two miles outside of town, on the same road that led to Nick’s vineyard. From her new home, she could easily jog the three miles into town, if she wanted. The tulip farm was on one side, and a marshy expanse leading to Nick’s house on the other.
The camper had been George Wilson’s getaway from his daughter’s family. But now, confined to a wheelchair and needing a caretaker to remind him of his regular medication, he no longer used the tiny retreat. In return for George’s regular exercise program, his daughter was more than happy to let Maggie live in his beloved camper, rent-free.
At five o’clock, Maggie, dirty and sweaty, had worked in Ole’s gym—cleaning it, arranging the equipment. She was looking forward to relaxing in her new home, and she was happy with the exercise class of five ladies. The overcast day had turned to a light rain, which had made a welcoming sound on the small camper. It looked like paradise where she wouldn’t fear disturbing the Alessandros with her nightmares, where she could find the peace she needed. And away from the Alessandros, she wasn’t likely to meet Nick in a too-close situation.
She opened the camper’s windows, letting in the fresh, rain-scented air. There was a tiny bedroom at its one end; in the middle was a minuscule bathroom, a kitchen with a two-burner gas stove, and an apartment-size refrigerator; and at the other end lay a small living space. It was like heaven, despite the cobwebs and dust. She tested the water faucets and the stool, which George had had a handyman reconnect and service, and they worked. With the exception of a few light bulbs that had to be replaced, the electrical systems were okay. A small heater and the oven would afford enough warmth on chilly days, and the air conditioner in one window would serve in the summer.
While Scout explored the small overgrown yard, Maggie began to clean.
She had to mind her own business. She couldn’t take Beth under her wing, trying to reshape her life, trying to give her what she needed. Beth wasn’t her younger sister to protect. She had to forget Beth.
But she could never forget Glenda…
Nick looked up to see a big black dog bounding across the marsh, running toward his house—and Maggie trudging behind, none too happy as she swished the cattails from her path.
In mid-May’s late afternoon sun, the dog’s coat gleamed, and while worried that she might startle a rattlesnake in the marshes, Nick admired the picture of Maggie, determined to reclaim her pet. She was a strong woman, ready to fight for what she thought was hers, and if she did cross a rattlesnake, the snake would definitely lose.
Why did she wear that locket, favor it when she was troubled?
The dog’s thrust through the marsh grass and cattails had flushed mallard geese. Distracted, the retriever cut a swath in their direction, ignoring Maggie’s angry shout. Then Scout was running toward Nick with Maggie working her way through the muddy marsh down the hill, between George’s camper and Nick’s vineyard.
In the two weeks since Maggie had moved into the camper, Nick had kept his distance. If she wanted privacy, that was her right.
If she wanted Dante, that was her right, too.
Nick’s brother was working overtime, trying to connect with the elusive Ms. Chantel. He’d taken an Alessandro carryout dinner to Ole’s, and he’d brought one of their mother’s favorite amaryllis bulbs to Maggie’s camper. Nick’s mother had whispered of Dante’s aching muscles after he’d run with Maggie, how he could barely move.
Nick knew exactly how Dante could move…fast.
Maggie called to Scout, who was between the vines now, running fast, hell-bent for Nick. With a fair amount of dirt and weeds and cattail fluff clinging to Scout’s coat, she barked and leaped onto Nick. He waggled her head and pushed her down playfully, and she leaped at him again, licking his hands as he held her paws away from his bare chest. He pushed her down and Scout ran between the bare vines, circled him in a fast run, and then came to stand beside him, tail thumping Nick’s jeaned calf as they watched Maggie come up the slight incline between the vineyard’s rows.
Her sweatsuit was mud-splattered
, bits of debris clinging to the mud on her pants and covering her shoes. The late afternoon sun caught the fire in her hair, that dark burnished red, and in the distance, her frown found and locked onto him.
Nick folded his arms over his bare chest and enjoyed the view. Maggie was breathing hard, and that bounce to her breasts said she wasn’t wearing a bra.
The sensual jolt hardened Nick’s body. Maggie was all woman, raw, sensual woman, all curves and movement. He could feel the hot beat of his blood, the throbbing that he’d almost forgotten—
Beneath the spots of mud, her face was pink and sweaty, tendrils clinging to her cheek. She frowned up at him and tried to catch her breath. Nick couldn’t stop his long, slow look down her body. “Hello, Maggie. Nice of you to drop over. There are rattlesnakes in that marsh. You’re lucky you didn’t meet one of them.”
“You whistled for my dog, didn’t you?” she accused, her hands on her hips. “That’s exactly what your brother did, and I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Did you tell him off, too?” Nick didn’t shield his irritation, and didn’t like that slip of jealousy.
“I tried. But Dante is likable.”
“Most women think that.” Dante appreciated women like Nick appreciated good grapes, sweet with the right percentage of sugar content. But then, looking at Maggie, clearly hot and bothered, Nick changed his mind. He preferred a good bite in his wine, the lasting aftertaste, filled with character.
“You’re wearing Scout’s mud on your chest.” Her hand was on Scout’s collar and the dog had lowered, paws braced, digging in for a pulling match. Maggie blew the strand of hair back from her face. Then she noted the wide scar on Nick’s side and ribs and frowned slightly.
He didn’t want to explain the details of the motorcycle wreck in which his wife had died. “So how’s business?”
“I’ve got a class going at Ole’s and a few clients on the side, just regular walkers. Not enough business to make me rich.”
“Celeste Moonstar?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Word gets around.” Celeste obviously wanted to know more about Maggie; she was interested enough to request fast walks down by the water. Only Celeste walked with Maggie by the lake; Maggie had other walkers in a group, but their path included the city streets.
While Nick had asked questions outright, Celeste was working in her own way. The psychic would pick up on Maggie’s fear of water, and her goal to overcome that fear. Celeste was foraging for answers to Maggie’s silence. Why?
Now Maggie cursed softly as Scout tore free and ran toward Nick’s house. While Maggie shouted and ran toward Scout, Nick walked slowly behind, enjoying the view, just that slight feminine butt jiggle.
Scout was barking happily, Maggie shouting, and Nick rounded the corner to see Maggie pulling on one end of his bedsheets and her dog at the other. “Scout, bad dog. Bad dog.”
Nick’s white T-shirt fluttered, the only piece of laundry still on his clothesline. The rest of his clothing had been trampled with mud. So much for wanting the scent of fresh air on his clothes, Nick thought. With a happy bark, Scout made a leap for the remaining T-shirt, tore it free of the pins, and ran down the embankment toward the lake.
When Scout had released the sheet, Maggie had fallen back, sitting abruptly on the ground with the sheet still in her hands.
Nick couldn’t help laughing and she frowned at him, ignoring his outstretched hand. She struggled to her feet. “This is not funny.”
“Depends on your point of view.”
She began gathering up his laundry. “I’ll wash these and return them. I’ll pay for anything torn. Right now, I’ve got to get my dog—”
Nick picked up a dirtied towel, shook it, and brushed it over his chest. “She knows where you are. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
He flopped the towel over a clothesline and reached for a washcloth. Holding Maggie’s face and ignoring the efforts she made to avoid him, Nick mopped her face just as he would his nieces’ and nephews’.
Because he wanted to keeping touching her, he tilted her head, studied her ear and carefully wiped away a drop of mud. His finger and thumb lingered to smooth her earlobe. Silky and delicate beneath his touch, it fascinated him.
Maggie shrugged free as though his gentleness upset her. “And just how do you know so much? How do you know she’ll come back? I could lose her.”
Nick tapped her nose with his finger. “Because she loves you.”
He wanted to keep Maggie with him a little longer; she looked so frustrated and feminine and cuddly…“I’ve got a washer and a dryer. I just use the clothesline sometimes. You could take care of that laundry tonight and wash your own clothes.”
He watched her scan the beach where Scout was flopping the wet, muddy T-shirt in the water. On impulse, Nick lifted his hand to brush back a tendril from Maggie’s cheek, and couldn’t resist tugging her ponytail. “Looks like today I should have chosen the dryer. You can clean up meanwhile. I’ll fix dinner—”
Her eyes were clear and dark green. “You’re lonesome, Nick. I can almost feel you ache. I’m not filling any vacancies left by your wife.”
The sudden, defensive walls-are-up sign surprised and nettled him. “Did I ask you?”
He walked into his house, leaving her standing with his laundry in her arms.
That muscled, stiff back said she’d offended him.
Maggie sighed and decided that he hadn’t done anything but offer to make life easier for her. Scout was racing back up the sand dunes, dragging the muddied T-shirt. She plopped it at Maggie’s feet and sat, tongue hanging down in a doggie grin.
“Don’t try to make friends with me,” Maggie said sternly as she dumped the laundry onto the wooden porch and dried Scout’s wet coat. She took off her canvas shoes, tried to scrape the mud from them, and gave up, placing them beside Nick’s on the front porch.
She used the towel to wipe the mud from between her toes. “It’s your fault we’re here, and I’ve just put my foot in my mouth. Now we have to go in there and make nice with Nick. I have this laundry to do, and there is no way I’m carrying it home and washing Nick’s clothes at the Wash and Dry. The whole town is wondering which Alessandro brother I’m picking.”
At the Alessandros’ late night dinner, she’d learned there was more to Dante than flirtation and good looks. Dante ached for his child, a boy only three years old. He’d thought the boy better off with his ex-wife, and now his son feared him. He worried that the child would be harmed in a custody suit and he worried that he wouldn’t be the parent the boy needed.
Maggie knew about trying to fill a loved one’s needs. Now she couldn’t allow herself to substitute Beth for Glenda, to try to correct the past by salvaging another woman. Yet inside, Maggie knew that if Beth needed her, she would fight as fiercely for the girl as she had for Glenda.
So much for not becoming involved in other lives.
Scooping up the wash, Maggie tucked her chin over the laundry, and holding it in one arm, opened the screen door to Nick’s house.
Previously intent on the view from the Frenchman’s lighthouse, she hadn’t noticed the shadowy, darkened living room. Ceiling to floor book racks were filled; a beautiful book displaying wine bottles rested on the low blocky-style coffee table. A framed picture had been placed facedown on the table beside a small fruit jar and a bottle of wine. Clothing had been tossed over a man-size chair made in the same heavy wooden style, but with leather cushions. A matching sofa was just as big, dominating the room, and the indented pillow and rumpled blanket said Nick had slept there.
Various family pictures, some old black-and-whites and even some tintypes, hung on the wall and stood on the fireplace mantel. The picture of an old man, bent by age and using a cane, caught her—the man’s other hand held that of a small boy as they walked down a row of grape vines. The picture reminded Maggie of the Alessandro Winery logo.
Uncertain of what to do, Maggie called softly, �
��Nick?”
But Scout was already running through the darkened house, leaving Maggie to follow. The kitchen was small and neat, and Maggie dumped the soiled laundry onto the floor in front of the obviously new washer and dryer. Bedrooms were clearly down a hallway, and the large bathroom by the kitchen looked like heaven.
Maggie found Nick on a backyard wooden deck, at work over an oversize smoking barbecue grill. His glance at her wasn’t friendly. “I’m grilling chicken and having baked potatoes. Yes, I get tired of Italian food. There’s enough for you, if you’re hungry. If not, fine. I can take you home, or you can drive my pickup. I’ll get it in the morning.”
He closed the lid to the grill, sprawled in a redwood deck lounger, and sat. He ignored her and surveyed his kingdom while Scout sniffed around the weathered picnic table, making herself at home.
Maggie decided that if he wanted to brood, he could do it alone. “I’m doing this laundry. And then I’m walking home and taking my dog.”
“You just do whatever your little heart desires.” Just leave me the hell alone.
“Fine.” Maggie left Scout with Nick and went back into the house. She jammed sheets into the washer, added detergent, and watched the tub fill and agitate. She decided to use the bathroom meanwhile and turned off the washer, leaving the sheets to soak.
In the bathroom, a heap of towels lay in one corner, layered with jeans and T-shirts and shorts.
Nick stood at the door, barbecue sauce bottle in hand, just as she stood in front of the sink, washing one foot in it with men’s heavy-duty hand soap. He frowned at her. “I said you can take a shower if you want.”
He left for a minute and came back to toss a towel, a man’s clean shirt, and a pair of jeans onto her head. She pushed them aside and they fell to the floor. “You’d better save these. From the looks of this place, you might need them. And maybe if you asked Lorna real nice, she’d come out here and do your laundry. It looks like someone needs to. You apparently didn’t do everything.”
